It's midday and three friends and I are in downtown Bozeman, Montana, buying thermals and food for a week skiing in Moonlight Basin. We've done Europe for years, but this time we wanted something different: woods, starry skies, a log cabin, a hot tub, and days that involve so much skiing they demand early nights.

We pack our provisions in the truck - North Face salopettes for £30 and food at £35 a head - and drive out of town. Rows of cut corn lie cold between grooves full of blown snow, and scattered Dutch barns sit scorched and faded by sun and ice. Further away a huge herd of elk roam the flats and beyond that – the air is so dry we can see for 100 miles - the Gallatin and Madison mountain ranges are squeezed up against either side of the highway, tracing the edges of two gigantic fault lines.

We take a pit stop but haven't quite got the hang of drive-through culture yet. At the ATM I am slapping my shoulders to keep warm while queued up behind a silver super-lorry. At the expresso shack Richie reads the internationally famous Bozeman Police Reports in line behind a raised 4x4: "A woman was ejected from a bar and came back in through the toilet window. She was banned." In the gas station Vicky and Dunc meet a man called Corey wearing a $10 shirt and salopettes custom-made for his massive thighs: in his spare time he hunts moose and hauls them home. Welcome, people, to Montana: "Where the men are men, and the women are men ..." (so Corey says).

Ranches, moose hunters, discount stores and gas stations: it's all cowboy heaven so far, and when we wake up the next morning the dream gets even better, with three inches of fresh snow wedged against our cabin door. Outside lies 3,812 acres of ski resort and 85 miles of runs, all pristine and untouched. 400 inches of snow a season, 4,000ft of vertical drop, and one skiable acre per person. I don't generally do numbers but these are numbers I understand. Basically, there's a lot of snow, and no one around.

We take 10 steps to the slope and cruise down to the first lift. The snow is creamy; we do two-mile runs that snake between evergreen forests without seeing a soul, and then venture into "glades" (thinned out natural forest). It's surreal in the glades: like an altered reality. The sun shines weakly through the clouds and casts faint tree shadows. We advance like a silent search party, a line of four weaving in and out of trunks and dipping under boughs, our feet deep in powder. Snow puffs off branches in slow-mo. There are no sounds but our own. We didn't know this kind of skiing existed.

Unimpeded by lift queues or other skiers we're starving by midday, so stop for refillable bowls of corn chowder, ranch fries and cheese toasties at Madison Base Area – the firepit and rocking chairs outside closed for today – and then head back out, having made use of every inch of overlap we can find between our sleeves and gloves.

For the next few days this is our routine: spend the day in a snowshaker (it snows all the time), eat burritos and bison burgers to warm up at lunch, ski more. We run over the whole side of the mountain, down Iron Horse, Snake Bite and Grizzly Meadows. On Lookout Ridge one black raven sits on a bare twisted aspen. By now we are quiet people: perfect snowflakes land on our gloves on the Six Shooter lift and we sit marvelling at each one.

At night we cook chilli, drink red wine, and sit in the hot tub looking at stars. There's a hermitage style to our skiing. Just over the other side of the mountain lies neighbouring resort Big Sky, with noise, speed and people, but we just want to camp out over here. Moonlight is next to a wilderness – elk, moose, bear (grizzly and black), wolverine, deer, mountain lion and goat continue to live in and migrate through the ski area – and perhaps we can feel that in the air.

The eat-ski-sleep routine (without 50 jelly vodka shots and a sticky nightclub floor in between) means we make serious inroads in our skiing. I take lessons at Moonlight Basin, and my teacher, Ted, transforms me in powder. One of the interesting differences between Moonlight and the Alps is that the challenging skiing here is laid out like an exhibit at the top of the mountain; a series of parallel, linear gullies.

We stay down in the big powdery bowls and the forests (the skiable area breaks down into 20% expert, 40% advanced, 26% intermediate and 14% beginner) but the sight of the Headwaters create a daily visual challenge – could I go up there?

On Thursday evening we drive out to Norris Hot Springs, a natural volcanic spring, and sit in clouds of steam, drinking honey beer and listening to live bluegrass. Every now and then the music stops, so that the mandolin player can fix the plumbing.

And on Friday, Ted deems me couloir ready. Up on the Headwater Ridge it's minus something degrees, there are 20mph winds, poor visibility and the wind is freezing the inside of my nose. But under Ted's encouragement (or inability to comprehend that I am outside my comfort zone) I have about seven goes on the first two chutes (the easiest). I try dutifully to "feel the pinch" as ice crusts and hurts my face, and cold freezes my fingertips. Every now and then I bounce straight down the fall line just like he says, otherwise I fall over and shovel snow down my pants.

Finally the ordeal is over and I ski back down to the lodge to meet the others for lunch, where I promptly burst into tears and take the afternoon off to have a facial and hot stone massage with a soothing hot wheat bag around my shoulders. Montana: where the men are men, and the visitors have enough space to do whatever they want.

Getting there

Kate Rew stayed in Cowboy Heaven Cabins at Moonlight Basin, and was a guest of Ski Independence (ski-i.com) and Moonlight Basin (moonlightbasin.com).

Several airlines fly from London Heathrow to Bozeman including Northwest, KLM, Continental and British Airways. You will have to change and take an internal US flight to reach Bozeman. Prices currently start from around £445rtn